Birthday Gift
by chimingofthebells
Summary: Kid!fic. Young Sherlock had always hated his birthday, until the day Mycroft gave him a special present. My first fanfiction so please be gentle.


Young Sherlock looks across the skyline, staring, but not really seeing. He is sitting on the roof, one of his favorite places to be. Nobody can bother him when he's up there. He can be left in solitude, alone with his thoughts. He can see the people going about their business on the sidewalk below, but nobody can see him. It's perfect.

There are hardly any people to observe at the moment, save for the odd drunk. Mycroft and Mummy are still asleep. Sherlock is in his pajamas, with his skull by his side. The early morning breeze ruffles his dark, curly hair. He stares out across the city, thinking of the day ahead. Just the thought of it gives him an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. Today is his birthday. Today he is twelve years old.

Normally, people enjoy their birthdays. For some reason, they see it as a time to celebrate the fact that they haven't yet died. But Sherlock isn't normal, and he doesn't like his birthday for a number of reasons.

The first reason was that he doesn't see anything significant about this day. So he's still alive after this much time. So what? Everyone else is alive too. He hasn't accomplished anything. Well, he has, but he does that every day of the year, not just on his birthday.

The second reason was that every year on his birthday, Sherlock has to visit Dr. Todd. He has to go because mummy says he doesn't act like a normal child. He has an odd fascination with blood and gore. He reads murder cases obsessively and often goes off on his own to try and solve them himself. Sometimes he will disappear for days, only to be found trying to interrogate someone. He won't listen if anybody tells him that he shouldn't be solving murder crimes. It's futile to point out that he's almost always right. People just don't think a kid his age is smart enough. They think he should be out playing with friends, people his own age, doing so-called "normal" things. Sherlock doesn't want friends. He has his skull by his side, that's enough.

As time passed, the skull had become something of a friend to the lonely boy. Sherlock could tell the skull anything without fear of judgment, he didn't have to be polite, and it never said anything stupid. In Sherlock's opinion, the skull was better than people. But of course, if Mummy or Dr. Todd knew that he would be carted off to a mental asylum. The asylum was bound to be boring and he has no intention of going there.

His mother had always thought that his behavior was strange for a child. She thought it was just a phase, but when she caught him conducting experiments on the neighbors' cat when he was six she knew something was wrong. She wouldn't listen when he said it was necessary in finding out who drowned that woman in her hotel bathtub. Apparently the only people who did that kind of thing were psychopaths destined to be murderers. So Sherlock had to go to the psychologist at least once a year to make sure he didn't hurt anyone.

Sherlock hates the doctor. He knows that he isn't normal, and that a lot of what he does it thought of as crazy. But people are too naive, too _dumb _to see things any differently. They can't see how Sherlock's experiments make perfect sense and are completely logical. If they just _tried _to use their brains, they would see how right Sherlock is about nearly everything.

The first time Sherlock had gone to see the psychologist, he didn't say a word except to insult him. He remarked on how the man was clearly having an affair with his wife's sister, and that his children hated him for it. He didn't bother to tell him how he knew that. Dr. Todd sent Sherlock out that day telling him to mind his own business about the bad things other people might get up to in their private lives and maybe he wouldn't be so disturbed.

Dr. Todd was never very kind to Sherlock, though it wasn't for lack of trying. He couldn't figure out how to navigate the boy's thoughts, and couldn't find the source of his disturbing habits. Sherlock wouldn't cooperate, causing the doctor to get extremely irritated. He could never see the point in seeing him if they never got anywhere.

Now, Sherlock hears movement from inside the building. Mummy is awake. Soon she will go to wake up her youngest son only to find that he isn't there. She'll most likely worry. He should go inside.

With a sigh, Sherlock picks up the skull and crawls over to the window. He drops into his room, making as little noise as possible. He places the skull into its box and slides it into his hiding place. He then goes into the kitchen to greet his mother.

He is surprised to find that it is not Mummy, but Mycroft who is making scrambled eggs. "Happy birthday, little brother. Although I suppose you aren't so little anymore, are you?" He casually dumps the eggs onto a plate along with toast and sausages and sets the meal on the table. Sherlock doesn't move to eat.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

"Good morning to you too." Mycroft sits down at the small table with a cup of tea.

"You know what I mean. You're supposed to be at uni." Mycroft merely looks at him, wearing a well-tailored suit, drinking with his little finger sticking up.

"Well, I couldn't miss my little brother's twelfth birthday, now could I?"

Sherlock sits at the table and regards his older sibling suspiciously. They both know how insignificant birthdays are. "Where's Mummy?"

"Mummy's gone out. She will be gone for most of the day."

"I'm supposed to go see Dr. Todd." Sherlock regrets saying those words immediately. Maybe if he hadn't mentioned it, he wouldn't have to go. Mycroft shakes his head at this reminder.

"You and I both know that Dr. Todd is doing nothing to help you and that he never will. You're going to start a different kind of therapy." Mycroft says this without taking his eyes off of his brother. It's making Sherlock feel uneasy, but he doesn't show it.

"What kind of therapy?" He asks with a raised eyebrow.

Mycroft reaches under the under the table and produces a sleek black violin case. "Happy birthday, Sherlock."

It is difficult for Sherlock to hide his amazement at this gift. Mycroft must have known about his infatuation with the instrument. He tries to hide his eagerness as he reaches across his plate and pulls the case towards him. He opens it to reveal a sleek, brand new, state-of-the-art violin. It's perfect. Breathlessly, he lifts it with light fingers. For a while he just stares at it, then turns to his brother and says, "Why have you given me this?"

Mycroft eyes him. He pauses, as if choosing his next words very carefully. "Think of it as…my way of apologizing for the last few years."

Sherlock simply stares at him, his expression urging him for further explanation. Mycroft inhales deeply.

"I realize that the last few years have not been exactly easy for you, and your sessions with Dr. Todd are not helping, if not making things worse. I was the one who told mummy that you were trying to drown that cat all those years ago, and that was what finally convinced her to put you into therapy."

Sherlock simply stares, dumbfounded. He has never heard his brother apologize for anything. He realizes that Mycroft is waiting for a reply, so he sets down his new gift. "But why a violin? What good will that do?"

"Music has been proven to be far more effective than therapy. I thought you might enjoy this better than going to see a doctor that does nothing but aggravate you."

Sherlock looks down at the instrument. It is obviously very expensive and of the best quality. God knows he would rather play violin than go to that horrid psychologist. Truth be told, he is overjoyed with this present. He wants nothing more at this moment than to run to his room and inspect it from every angle. But he doesn't want to let Mycroft know that. He doesn't want to owe his big brother any more than he already does. Mycroft has saved Sherlock from himself so many times that he would more than likely be dead by now. The amount of times Sherlock owes his older sibling for is growing quickly. But it is a tempting offer. How else will Sherlock get away from Dr. Todd? "I don't know how to play." He says, trying his best to hide his discomfort.

"No worries," says Mycoft with a small smile, "You're a quick learner."

"I expect you'll teach me?"

Mycroft chuckles and leans back in his chair. "That would put us both through hell. You can teach yourself, Sherlock. Unless you want a trainer, but that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?"

Mycroft reaches down again and pulls up a thin book, sleek and brand new, bearing the title, "Violin for beginners, volume one." As he slides it across the table, Sherlock sniffs. '_I can learn without the help of a children's' book.' _he thinks.

"You are a beginner, little brother. No doubt you will go through this book with great ease. Then you can play at your leisure."

Sherlock eyes the book warily. He doesn't want to admit to needing the book, and he doesn't want to show his eagerness at trying it. Carefully, he opens it and flicks through the pages. It looks easy enough; he should be able to get through it by noon. Mycroft looks down at his watch. "Well, I'm afraid I have to leave you, there's business to attend to. You will have the flat to yourself for the day. At least try the violin, won't you?" Sherlock's eyes follow him as he stands, takes his plate to the sink, and moves towards the door. "Don't waste the day doing nothing."

The older Holmes brother hooks his umbrella around his arm and gives his younger brother a long, fixating look before exiting and shutting the door behind him.

Sherlock sits at the table, straining his ears, following his brother's footsteps down the stairs and outside. Once he is sure that Mycroft is gone, he grabs the violin and dashes to the living room to test his birthday gift.

This might not be such a bad birthday after all.


End file.
